The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  He spent the remainder of the afternoon reviewing what he could find on Lenin. It was nearly four o'clock when he first noticed the man. He was short and thin, his anxious eyes watery. He was dressed in a baggy beige suit and, for some reason, Lord more than once thought the stranger's gaze lingered longer than it should. But Zenov sat nearby, on guard, and he chalked his suspicions up to paranoia and told himself to calm down.

  Near five o'clock he finally found something, again in Lenin's own hand. Ordinarily it would mean nothing, but Yussoupov's name drew his attention, his mind cross-referencing with the Moscow note.

  Felix Yussoupov lives on the rue Gutenburg near Bois de Boulogne. He associates with the large population of Russian aristocracy that has invaded Paris. The fools think the Revolution will die and that they will shortly return to their position and wealth. I am told that one former dowager keeps a suitcase packed and ready, thinking she will be leaving soon for home. My agents report reading correspondence between Yussoupov and Kolya Maks. At least three letters. This is a concern. I realize now the mistake we made relying on the Ural Soviet to handle the executions. The developing reports are becoming troublesome. We already have one woman under arrest who claims to be Anastasia. She came to our attention because of her constant letters to King George V, pleading for his help in escaping. The Ural Committee reports that two of the tsar's daughters are being hidden in a remote village. They have identified them as Maria and Anastasia. I have dispatched agents to check. Another woman has appeared in Berlin and conclusively asserts that she is Anastasia. Informants report that she bears a striking resemblance to the daughter.

  This is all troubling. If not for the fear I harbor about what happened at Yekaterinburg, I would dismiss these reports as nonsense. But I am afraid there is more to it. We should have killed Yussoupov with the rest of the bourgeoisie. That arrogant ass is at the center of something. He openly hates our government. His wife has Romanov blood and some have talked of a restoration with him as tsar. That is foolish dreaming by foolish men. The Motherland is gone to them, this much they should clearly understand.

  He finished the rest of the page but there was no further reference to Felix Yussoupov. Certainly Lenin was concerned that Yurovsky, the man in charge of the Romanovs' execution at Yekaterinburg, had filed a false report about what had happened.

  Were eleven people murdered in that cellar, or only nine?

  Or perhaps eight?

  Who knew?

  Lord thought about the royal pretenders who'd surfaced by 1920. Lenin referred to a woman from Berlin. She came to be known as Anna Anderson and was the most celebrated of all the subsequent pretenders. Movies and books detailed her story, and for decades she basked in a celebrity limelight, steadfastly maintaining, until her death in 1984, that she was the tsar's youngest daughter. But DNA testing on tissue that survived her death conclusively proved that she was not related to the Romanovs in any way.

  There was also a persuasive account circulated through Europe in the 1920s that Alexandra and her daughters were actually not murdered at Yekaterinburg, but instead had been spirited away before Nicholas and Alexie were shot. The women were supposedly held in Perm, a provincial town not far from Yekaterinburg. Lord remembered a book, The File on the Tsar, which went into great detail trying to prove that assertion. But later documents that the authors had no access to--not to mention the subsequent location of the royal bones--demonstrated conclusively that Alexandra and at least three of her daughters had died at Yekaterinburg.

  It was all so confusing, hard to ever know what was real and what had been concocted. He agreed with Churchill. Russia is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.

  From his briefcase he retrieved another copy he'd made in the Moscow archive. It was attached to a note written in longhand by Lenin. He'd not shown this to either Hayes or Semyon Pashenko because it really wasn't material. Until now.

  It was a typed excerpt from an affidavit given by one of the Yekaterinburg guards, dated October 1918, three months after the Romanov murders.

  The tsar was no longer young, his beard going gray. He daily wore a soldier's shirt with an officer's belt fastened by a buckle around his waist. His eyes were kind, and I got the impression that he was a simple, frank, talkative person. Sometimes I felt he was going to speak to me. He looked as if he would like to talk. The tsarina was not a bit like him. She was severe looking and had the appearance and manners of a haughty woman. Sometimes the guards discussed things and we decided that she looked exactly like a tsarina should. She seemed older than the tsar. Gray hair was plainly visible at her temples, her face not the face of a young woman. All my evil thoughts about the tsar disappeared after I had stayed a certain time among the guards. After I had seen them several times I began to feel entirely different toward them. I began to pity them. I pitied them as human beings. I longed for their suffering to end. But I realized what was coming. The talk of their fate was clear. Yurovsky made sure we all understood the task at hand. After a while, I started saying to myself that something should be done to let them escape.

  What had he stumbled upon? And why had no one found any of this before? But he kept reminding himself that only in the past few years had access to the archives been opened. The Protective Papers were still closed to the vast majority of researchers, and the sheer chaos of Russian record keeping made finding anything a matter of luck.

  He needed to get back to Moscow and report to Taylor Hayes. It was possible that Stefan Baklanov's claim could be brought into question. There might be a pretender out there, someone with a bloodline closer to Nicholas II than Baklanov's. Sensationalist journalism and popular fiction had long proclaimed a pretender's existence. One movie studio had even released to millions of children a full-length animated feature on Anastasia that postulated her survival. But just as with Elvis and Jimmy Hoffa, the record was heavy on speculation and devoid of conclusive evidence.

  Or was it?

  Hayes hung up the phone and tried to control his temper. He'd traveled from Moscow to Green Glade for both business and relaxation. He'd left word for Lord at the hotel that he'd been called out of town and that he should continue in the archives, promising to get in touch with Lord by midafternoon. Intentionally, he did not include any means of location. But Ilya Zivon had been ordered to keep a close eye on Lord and to report everything.

  "That was Zivon," he said. "Lord spent the day in St. Petersburg going through the archives."

  "You were unaware of this?" Lenin asked.

  "Totally. I thought he was working in Moscow. Zivon said that Lord told him to drive to the airport this morning. They're taking the Red Arrow back to Moscow tonight."

  Khrushchev was openly agitated. Rare for him, Hayes thought. Of the five, the government representative stayed the coolest, rarely raising his voice. He was also careful with his vodka, perhaps thinking sobriety gave him an edge.

  Stefan Baklanov was gone from Green Glade, driven the previous day to another property not far away where he could be kept secluded until his first appearance before the commission in two days. It was a little past seven PM and Hayes should have been headed back to Moscow. He was just about to leave when the call came from St. Petersburg.

  "Zivon slipped away at dinner and called his employers. They directed him here," Hayes said. "He also said that Lord talked to a man at the archives yesterday in Moscow. Semyon Pashenko was the name. The hotel concierge told Zivon this morning that Lord had drinks with a man of the same description last evening."

  "And the description?" Khrushchev asked.

  "Late fifties, early sixties. Thin. Light blue eyes. Bald. Start of a beard on his face and neck."

  Hayes observed the look exchanged between Lenin and Khrushchev. He'd sensed all week they were keeping something from him, and he was liking the situation less and less. "Who is he? Since you obviously know."

  Lenin sighed. "A problem."

  "That much I gather. How about details?"

  K
hrushchev said, "Have you ever heard of the Holy Band?"

  He shook his head.

  "In the nineteenth century, Tsar Alexander II's brother started a group that came to be known by that name. The fear of assassination was tremendous at the time. Alexander had freed the serfs and wasn't popular. This Holy Band was something of a joke. Nothing but aristocrats who pledged themselves to defend the tsar's life. In reality they could hardly defend themselves and, in the end, Alexander died from an assassin's bomb. Pashenko heads a contemporary group made up of anything but amateurs. His Holy Band was formed sometime in the nineteen twenties, as best we can determine, and has survived to this day."

  "That's after Nicholas II and his family were murdered," Hayes said. "There was no tsar to protect."

  "But that is the problem," Lenin said. "Rumors have persisted for decades that descendants of Nicholas survived the massacre."

  "Bullshit," Hayes said. "I've read about all the pretenders. They're nuts. Every one of them."

  "Perhaps. But the Holy Band survives."

  "Has this got something to do with what Lord found in the archives?"

  "It has everything to do with it," Lenin said. "And now that Pashenko has made repeated contact, Lord must be dealt with immediately."

  "Another hit?"

  "Definitely. And tonight."

  He decided not to argue the merits. "How am I supposed to get men to St. Petersburg before midnight?"

  "Air transportation can be arranged."

  "Care to tell me why this is so urgent?"

  "Frankly," Khrushchev said, "details are not important. Suffice it to say, the problem could jeopardize everything we are working to achieve. This Lord is apparently a free spirit. One you cannot control. No more chances can be taken. Use the phone number we provided and have men dispatched. That chornye cannot be allowed to return to Moscow alive."

  FOURTEEN

  ST. PETERSBURG, 11:30 PM

  Lord and his bodyguard arrived at the train station. The concrete platforms were clogged with people trudging past in heavy coats, some adorned with curly astrakhan wool collars, most clutching bulky suitcases or shopping bags. No one seemed to pay him any attention. And other than the man in the archives, whom he'd thought might be watching, he'd sensed no danger all day.

  He and Zinov had enjoyed a leisurely dinner at the Grand Hotel Europe, then spent the rest of the evening in one of the lounges listening to a string quartet. He'd wanted to stroll Nevsky Prospekt, but Zinov had been hesitant about parading the streets at night. So they'd stayed inside and taken a taxi directly to the station, allowing just enough time to climb aboard.

  The evening was cold and Uprising Square bustled with traffic. He imagined the bloody exchanges between tsarist police and demonstrators that had started the revolution in 1917, the battle for control of the square raging for two days. The train station itself was another Stalinist creation, the grandiose green-and-white facade more fitting for a palace than a rail terminal. Next door, construction continued on a new high-speed rail terminal for a line being built to Moscow. The multibillion-dollar project was designed by an Illinois architectural firm, working through a British engineering concern, and the head architect had been present at the Volkhov briefing yesterday, understandably jittery about his future.

  Lord had booked a first-class sleeping compartment with two berths. He'd ridden the Red Arrow express several times and recalled the days when sheets and mattresses were filthy, the compartments less than clean. But things had noticeably changed, the ride now regarded as one of the more luxurious in Europe.

  The train left on time at 11:55 PM, which would put them in Moscow at 7:55 tomorrow morning. Four hundred and five miles in eight hours.

  "I'm not all that sleepy," he told Zinov. "I think I'll go to the saloon car for a drink. You can wait here, if you like."

  Zinov nodded and said he would catch a quick nap. Lord left the compartment and moved forward through two more sleeping cars, down a narrow, one-person-wide corridor. A trace of coal smoke from a samovar at the far end of each car burned his eyes.

  The saloon car was equipped with comfortable leather seats and oak adornments. He took a window table and, in the gloomy light, watched the countryside whiz past.

  He ordered a Pepsi, his stomach not in the mood for vodka, and opened his briefcase, reviewing the notes made earlier on the documents he'd found. He was convinced that he'd stumbled onto something, and he wondered what effect any of it would have on Stefan Baklanov's claim.

  There was a lot at stake--to Russia, as well as to the corporations Pridgen & Woodworth represented. He didn't want to do anything to jeopardize either's future, or his own with the firm.

  But there was no denying his lingering doubts.

  He rubbed his eyes. Damn, he was tired. Late hours were nothing unusual, but the strain from the past few weeks was beginning to wear on him.

  He settled back in the plush leather seat and sipped his drink. There certainly had been no class in law school on any of this. And twelve years of clawing his way up the firm had not prepared him, either. Lawyers like him were supposed to work in offices, courthouses, and libraries, the only intrigue being how to bill enough to make the effort worthwhile, and how to garner recognition from senior partners like Taylor Hayes--people who would ultimately make the decision on his future.

  People he wanted to impress.

  Like his father.

  He could still see Grover Lord lying in the open casket, the mouth that had hollered the word of God closed in death, the lips and face ashen. They'd dressed him in one of his best suits and tied the tie with a dimple the reverend had always liked. The gold cufflinks were there, along with his watch. Lord remembered thinking how those three pieces of jewelry could have paid for a good slice of his education. Nearly a thousand of the faithful had turned out for the service. There'd been fainting and crying and singing. His mother had wanted him to speak. But what would he say? He couldn't proclaim the man a charlatan, a hypocrite, a lousy father. So he'd refused to say anything, and his mother never forgave him. Even now, their relationship remained chilly. She was Mrs. Grover Lord, and proud of the fact.

  He rubbed his eyes again as sleep started to take hold.

  His gaze drifted down the long car to the faces of others up for a late refreshment. One man caught his attention. Young, blond, stocky. He sat alone sipping a clear drink, and the man's presence sent a chill down Lord's spine. Was he a threat? But the inquiry was answered when a young woman with a small child appeared. Both sat with the man and all three of them started chatting.

  He told himself to get a grip.

  But then he noticed at the far end of the car a middle-age man nursing a beer, the face gaunt, lips thin, the same anxious watery eyes he'd seen that afternoon.

  The man from the archives, still dressed in the same baggy beige suit.

  Lord came alert.

  Too much of a coincidence.

  He needed to get back to Zinov, but didn't want to make his concern obvious. So he tipped back the rest of his Pepsi, then slowly snapped his briefcase shut. He stood and tossed a few rubles on the table. He hoped his actions signaled calm, but on the way out, in the glass door, he saw the man's reflection stand and head toward him.

  He yanked open the sliding door and darted from the saloon, slamming the door shut. As he turned into the next car, he saw the man hustling his way.

  Shit.

  He made his way forward and entered the car with his compartment. A quick glance back through the glass and he saw the man enter the car behind, still coming his way.

  He slid open his compartment door.

  Zinov was gone.

  He slammed the door shut. Perhaps his bodyguard was in the lavatory. He rushed down the narrow aisle and rounded a slight angle in the corridor that led to the far exit. The lavatory door was closed, its OCCUPIED notice not engaged.

  He slid open the door.

  Empty.

  Where the hell was Zinov? />
  He stepped inside the lavatory. But before he did, he cracked open the exit door to give the appearance that someone had passed through to the next car. He slid the lavatory door shut, but did not engage the lock so the OCCUPIED wouldn't show from the outside.

  He stood motionless, pressed tight against the stainless-steel door, breathing hard. His heart pounded. Footsteps approached and he braced himself, ready to use his briefcase as a weapon. From the door's other side, the exit for the sleeper car slid open with a dull scrape.

  A second later it closed.

  He waited a full minute.

  Hearing nothing, he inched open the lavatory door. No one was in the hall. He slammed the door shut and engaged the lock. It was the second time in two days he'd successfully run for his life. He laid his briefcase on the toilet and took a moment to rinse sweat from his face in the washbasin. A can of disinfectant rested on the sink. He used the spray to cleanse the bar of soap, then washed his hands and face, careful not to swallow the water, a laminated sign warning in Cyrillic that nothing was potable. He used his handkerchief to dry his face. No paper towels had been provided.

  He stared at himself in the mirror.

  His brown eyes were weary, the angular features of his face drawn, and his hair needed a cut. What was going on? And where was Zinov? Some bodyguard. He splashed more water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, careful again not to swallow. A strange irony, he thought. Goddamn superpower with the ability to blow up the world a thousand times over, but can't manage clean water on a train.

  He tried to regain his composure. Through an oval window the night raced past. Another train whizzed by in the opposite direction, the rush of cars lasting what seemed minutes.

  He took a deep breath, grabbed his briefcase, and slid open the door.

  The way was blocked by a tall, stocky man with a pockmarked face, his shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord stared into the eyes and instantly noticed the wide space between the right pupil and brow.